The Importance of Being Ernest aka Jack
by BasilandDorianGay
Summary: Oscar Wilde s famous play "The Importance of Being Earnest" put into another time and space: Cardiff, the early 20th century. Jack Worthness, a good-looking man of foreign orign, wants to marry Gwaine, a young boy. But the big problems are Gwaine s father, the construct of traditional marriage and Jack s origin...


Oscar Wilde´s famous play "The Importance of Being Ernest" put into another time and space: Cardiff, the early 20th century. Jack Worthness, a good-looking man of foreign orign, wants to marry Gwaine, a young boy. Jack´s best friend, John Hartcrieff, fancies Jack´s ward, Cecily Cooper. But the big problems are Gwaine´s father (Sir Manger), the construct of traditional marriage and Jack´s orign...Additionaly John and Jack are not entirely earnest...

 **The Importance of Being Earnest**

 **Characters:  
** JACK WORTHNESS (Captain Jack Harkness)  
JOHN HARTCRIEFF (Captain John Hart)  
REV. CANON HARPER (Owen Harper)  
WILLIAMS, JACK´S BUTLER (Rhys Williams)  
DAVIDSON, JOHN´S MANSERVANT (Andy Davidson)  
SIR AUGUST MANGER (Billis Manger)  
HONORABLE GWAINE FAIRJONES (Ianto Jones)  
CECILY COOPER (Gwen Cooper)  
MISS PRISMATO, CECILY´S GOVERNESS (Toshiko Sato)

 **The scenes of the play**  
Act I John Hartcrieff´s Flat near The Ritz, Cardiff  
Act II The Garden at Jack´s Country House, Brecknockshire (near Brecon)  
Act III Drawing-room of Jack´s Country House, Brecknockshire

Time – Early 20th Century  
Place - Cardiff

 **ACT I  
**  
SCENE – _Morning-room in JOHN´s flat near The Ritz Dancing Hall. The room is luxuriously and artistically furnished. The sound of a piano is heard in the adjoining room._  
[DAVIDSON _is arranging afternoon tea, with a big sip of Scotch, on the table, and after the music has ceased,_ JOHN _enters._ ]  
JOHN. Did you hear what I was playing, Davidson?  
DAVIDSON. It´s hard to listen to this playing of yours.  
JOHN. I´m sorry for that, for your sake. I don´t play accurately – anyone can play  
accurately – but I play with wonderful expression.  
DAVIDSON. Yes, sir.  
JOHN. And, speaking of expressions, have you got the cucumber sandwiches cut  
for Sir Manger?  
DAVIDSON. Yes, sir. [ _Hands them on a salver._ ]  
JOHN. [ _Fonds DAVIDSON´S cheek, inspects the sandwiches, takes two, and sits down on the sofa_ ]  
Oh! … by the way, Davidsons, I see from your book that on Thursday night, when  
I was dining with Mr. Worthness, eight bottles of champagne are entered as having  
been consumed.  
DAVIDSON. Yes, sir.  
JOHN. [ _looks DAVIDSON straight, well not in a straight way, into the eyes and grins._ ] Why is it that at a bachelor´s establishment the servants invariably drink the  
champagne? I ask merely for information.  
DAVIDSON. I attribute it to the superior quality of the wine, sir. I have often  
observed that in married households the champagne is rarely of a first-rate brand.  
JOHN. [ _Steps closer_.] Good galaxy! Is marriage so demoralising as that?  
DAVIDSON. I have only been married once. That was in consequence of a  
misunderstanding between myself and a young woman.  
JOHN. I don´t know that I am much interested in your family life or in women,  
Davidson.  
DAVIDSON. No, sir.  
JOHN. [ _Put hand on_ DAVIDSON´S _shoulder_ ] Very natural, I am sure. That will do,  
Davidson, thank you.  
DAVIDSON. Thank you, sir. [ _blushes, and goes out._ ]  
JOHN. Davidson´s views on marriage seem somewhat lax. Really, if the common  
people don´t set us a good example, what in the whole galaxy is the amusement in  
it? They seem to have absolutely no sense of romance and appetite.  
[ _Enter_ DAVIDSON.]  
DAVIDSON. Mr. Ernest Worthness.  
[ _Enter_ JACK, DAVIDSON _goes out._ ]  
JOHN. [Hugs JACK, then _grabs his_ _waist and looks at him eagerly_.] How are you,  
my dear Ernest? What brings you up to town?  
JACK. [ _Kisses_ JOHN, _smirks, touches_ JOHN´S _chin._ ] Oh, pleasure, pleasure! What  
else should bring one anywhere? Drinking as usually, I see, John!  
JOHN. I believe it is customary in good society to take some slight refreshment at  
five o´clock. Where have you been since last Thursday?  
JACK. [ _Sitting down on the sofa_.] In the country.  
JOHN. What in the whole galaxy do you do there?  
JACK. [ _Takes off his coat, fixes his braces_ ] When one is in town one amuses oneself.  
When one is in the country one amuses other people. It is excessively boring.  
JOHN. And who are the people you amuse?  
JACK. [Airly.] Oh, neighbours, neighbours.  
JOHN. Got nice neighbours in your part of Brecknockshire?  
JACK. Perfectly horrid! Never speak to one of them.  
JOHN. How immensely you must amuse them. [Goes over and takes sandwich.]  
By the way, Brecknockshire is your county, is it not?  
JACK. Eh? Brecknockshire? Yes, of course. Hallo! Why all these cups? Why  
cucumber sandwiches? Why such reckless extravagance in one so young? Who is  
coming to tea?  
JOHN. Oh! Merely Uncle August and Gwaine.  
JACK. How perfectly delightful!  
JOHN. Yes, that is all very well; but I am afraid Uncle August won´t quite approve  
of your being here.  
JACK. [smirks] May I ask why?  
JOHN. My dear fellow, the way you flirt with Gwaine is perfectly disgraceful. It is  
almost as bad as the way Gwaine flirts with you.  
JACK. I´m in love with Gwaine. I have come up to town expressly to propose to  
him.  
JOHN. I thought you had come up for pleasure? … I call that business.  
JACK. How utterly unromantic you are!  
JOHN. I really don´t see anything romantic in proposing. It is very romantic to be  
in love. But there is nothing romantic about a definite proposal. If ever I get  
married, I´ll certainly try to forget the fact.  
JACK. I have no doubt about that, dear John. The Divorce Court was specially  
invented for people whose memories are so curiously constituted.  
JOHN. Oh! There is no use speculating on that subject. Divorces are made in the  
Heavens – [JACK puts out his hand to take a sandwich. JOHN at once interferes.]  
Please don´t touch the cucumber sandwiches. They are ordered specially for Uncle  
August. [Takes one and eats it.] But you can touch other things here.  
JACK. Well, you have been eating them all the time.  
JOHN. That is quite a different matter. He is my uncle. Have some bread and  
butter. The bread and butter is for Gwaine. Gwaine is devoted to bread and butter.  
[JACK eats fast.] You behave as if you were married to him already. You are not  
married to him already, and I don´t think you ever will be.  
JACK. Why in the galaxy do you say that?  
JOHN. Well, in the first place boys never marry the men they flirt with. Boys don´t  
think it right. And the elder ones are certainly against that kind of marriage. It is  
still not accepted in the upper class, not even after Oscar Wilde.  
JACK. Don't speak of it!  
JOHN. It is a great truth. It accounts for the extraordinary number of bachelors  
that one sees all over the place. In the second place, I don´t give my consent.  
JACK. Your consent!  
JOHN. My dear fellow, Gwaine is my first cousin. And before I allow you to marry  
him, you will have to clear up the whole question of Cecily. [Rings bell.]  
JACK. Cecily! What in the galaxy do you mean? What do you mean, John, by  
Cecily? I don´t know anyone of the name of Cecily.  
[Enter DAVIDSON.]  
JOHN. Bring me that handkerchief Mr. Worthness lost on the mantelpiece the last  
time he dined here.  
DAVIDSON. Yes, sir.  
JACK. Do you mean to say you have had my handkerchief all this time? I wish to  
goodness you had let me know. I have been writing frantic letters to Scotland Yard  
about it. I was nearly offering a great reward.  
JOHN. Well, I wish you would offer one. I happen to be more than usually hard up.  
JACK. There is no good in offering a large reward now that the thing is found.  
[Enter DAVIDSON with the handkerchief on a salver. JOHN takes it at once.  
DAVIDSON goes out.]  
JOHN. I think that is rather mean of you, Ernest, I must say. [examines  
handkerchief.] However, it makes no matter, for, now that I look at the  
embroidery, I find that the thing isn´t yours after all.  
JACK. Of course it´s mine. [Moving to him.] You have seen me with it a hundred  
times, and you have no right whatsoever to read a private handkerchief.  
JOHN. Oh! It is absurd to have a hard-and-fast rule about what one should read  
and what one shouldn´t. More than half of modern culture depends on what one  
shouldn´t read.  
JACK. I am quite aware of the fact, and I don´t propose to discuss modern culture.  
It isn´t the sort of thing one should talk of in private. I simply want my  
handkerchief back.  
JOHN. Yes; but it isn´t your handkerchief. This handkerchief is a present from  
someone of the name of Cecily, and you said you didn´t know anyone of that  
name.  
JACK. Well, if you want to know, Cecily happens to be my aunt.  
JOHN. Your aunt!  
JACK. Yes. Charming old lady she is, too. Lives in Brecknockshire. Just give it  
back to me, John.  
JOHN. But why does she call herself little Cecily if she is your aunt and lives in  
Brecknockshire? [Reading.] "From little Cecily with her fondest love."  
JACK. My dear fellow, what in the galaxy is there in that? Some aunts are tall,  
some aunts are not tall. That is a matter that surely an aunt may be allowed to  
decide for herself. You seem to think that every aunt should be exactly like your  
aunt! That is absurd! For Heaven´s sake give me back my handkerchief. [Follows  
JOHN round the room, hugs JOHN from behind and tries to get the handkerchief.]  
JOHN. Yes. But why does your aunt call you her uncle? "From little Cecily, with  
her fondest love to her dear Uncle Jack". There is no objection, I admit to an aunt  
being a small aunt, but why an aunt, not matter what her size may be, should call  
her own nephew her uncle, I can´t quite make out. Besides, your name isn´t Jack  
at all: it´s Ernest.  
JACK. It isn´t Ernest; it´s Jack.  
JOHN. You have always told me it was Ernest. I have introduced you to everyone  
as Ernest. Your answer to the name of Ernest. You look as if your name was  
Ernest. You are the most earnest looking person I ever saw in my life. [smirks.] It  
is perfectly absurd your saying that your name isn´t Ernest. It´s on your cards.  
Here is one of them. [Taking card from case.] "Mr Ernest Worthness CF 10, South  
Glamorgan". I´ll keep this as a proof that your name is Ernest if ever you attempt  
to deny it to me or to Gwaine, or to anyone else. [Puts the card in his pocket]  
JACK. Well, my name is Ernest in town and Jack in the country, and the  
handkerchief was given to me in the country.  
JOHN. Yes, but that does not account for the fact that your small Aunt Cecily, who  
lives in Brecknockshire, calls you her dear uncle. Come, old boy, you had much  
better have the thing out at once.  
JACK. My dear John, you talk exactly as if you were a dentist. It is very vulgar to  
talk like a dentist when one isn´t a dentist. It produces a false impression.  
JOHN. Well, that is exactly what dentists always do. Now, go on! Tell me the whole  
thing. I may mention that I have always suspected you of being a confirmed and  
secret Doctorist; and I am quite sure of it now.  
JACK. Doctorist? What in the galaxy do you mean by a Doctorist?  
JOHN. I´ll reveal to you the meaning of that incomparable expression as soon as  
you are kind enough to inform me why you are Ernest in town and Jack in the  
country.  
JACK. Well, produce my handkerchief first.  
JOHN. Here it is. [Hands handkerchief.] Now produce your explanation, and pray  
make it improbable. [Sits on sofa.]  
JACK. My dear fellow, there is nothing improbable about my explanation at all. In  
fact it´s perfectly ordinary. Old Mr. Thomas Cooper, who adopted me when I was a  
little boy, made me in his will guardian to his grand-daughter, Miss Cecily Cooper.  
Cecily, who addresses me as her uncle from motives of respect that you could not  
possibly appreciate, lives at my place in the country under the charge of her  
admirable governess, Miss Prismato.  
JOHN. Where is that place in the country, by the way?  
JACK. That is nothing to you, dear boy. You are not going to be invited  
JOHN. I suspected that, my dear fellow! Now, go on. Why are you Ernest in town  
and Jack in the country?  
JACK. My dear John, I don´t know whether you will be able to understand my real  
motives. You are hardly serious enough. When one is placed in the position of  
guardian, one has to adopt a very high moral tone on all subjects. It´s one´s duty  
to do so. And as a high moral tone can hardly be said to conduce very much to  
either one´s health or happiness, in order to get up to town I have always  
pretended to have a younger brother of the name of Ernest, who lives near  
Mermaid Quay, and gets into the most dreadful scrapes. That, my dear John, is  
the whole truth pure and simple.  
JOHN. The truth is rarely pure and never simple. Modern life would be very tedious  
if it were either, ad modern literature a complete impossibility.  
JACK. That wouldn´t be at all a bad thing.  
JOHN. Literary criticism is not your forte, my dear fellow. Don´t try it. What you  
really are is a Doctorist. You are one of the most advanced Doctorists I know.  
JACK. What in the galaxy do you mean?  
JOHN. You have invented a very useful younger brother called Ernest, in order that  
you may be able to come up to town as often as you like. I have invented an  
invaluable permanent invalid called the Doctor, in order that I may be able to go  
down into the country whenever I choose. The Doctor is perfectly valuable. If it  
wasn´t for the Doctor´s extraordinary bad health, for instance, I wouldn´t be able  
to dine with you at Suzie´s tonight, for I have been really engaged to Uncle August  
for more than a week.  
JACK. I haven´t asked you to dine with me anywhere tonight.  
JOHN. I know. You are absurdly careless about sending out invitations. It is very  
foolish of you. Nothing annoys people so much as not receiving invitations.  
JACK. You had much better dine with your Uncle August.  
JOHN. I haven´t the smallest intention of doing anything of the kind. Besides, now  
that I know you to be a confirmed Doctorist I naturally want to talk to you about  
Doctoring. I want to tell you the rules.  
JACK. I´m not a Doctorist at all. If Gwaine accepts me, I am going to kill my  
brother indeed I think I´ll kill him in any case. Cecily is a little too much interested  
in him. It is rather a bore. So I am going to get rid of Ernest. And I strongly advise  
you to do the same with Mr… with your invalid friend who has the absurd name. JOHN. Nothing will induce me to part with the Doctor, and if you ever get married,  
which seems to me extremely problematic, you will be very glad to know the  
Doctor. A man who marries without knowing the Doctor has a very tedious time of  
it.  
JACK. That is nonsense. If I marry a charming boy like Gwaine, and he is the only  
boy I ever saw in my life that I would marry, I certainly won´t want to know the  
Doctor.  
JOHN. Then your husband will. You don´t seem to realise, that in married life three  
is company and two is none.  
JACK. That, my dear young friend, is the theory that the corrupt French drama  
has been propounding for the last fifty years.  
JOHN. Yes; and that the happy English home has proved in half the time.  
JACK. For the galaxy´s sake, don´t try to be cynical. It´s perfectly easy to be cynical.  
JOHN. My dear fellow, it isn´t easy to be anything nowadays. There´s such a lot of  
beastly competition about. [The sound of an electric bell is heard.] Ah! That must  
be Uncle August. Only relatives or creditors, ever ring in that Wagnerian manner.  
Now, if I get her out the way for ten minutes, so that you can have an opportunity  
for proposing to Gwaine, may I dine with you tonight at Suzie´s?  
JACK. I suppose so, if you want to.  
JOHN. Yes, but you must be serious about it. I hate people who are not serious  
about meals. It is so shallow of them.  
[Enter DAVIDSON.]  
DAVIDSON. Sir Manger and Mister Fairjones.  
[JOHN goes forward to meet them. Enter SIR MANGER and GWAINE.]  
SIR MANGER. Good afternoon, dear John, I hope you are behaving very well.  
JOHN. I´m feeling very well.  
SIR MANGER. That´s not quite the same thing. In fact the two things rarely go  
together. [Sees JACK and bows to him with icy coldness.]  
JOHN [to GWAINE.] Dear me, you are smart!  
GWAINE. I´m always smart! Aren´t I, Mr. Worthness?  
JACK. You are quite perfect, Mr. Fairjones.  
GWAINE. Oh! I hope I am not that. It would leave no room for developments, and I  
intend to develop in many directions. [GWAINE and JACK sit down together in the  
corner.]  
SIR MANGER. I´m sorry if we are a little late, John, but I was obliged to call on  
dear Lady Hallett. I hadn´t been there since her poor husband´s death. I never saw  
a woman so altered; she looks quite twenty years younger. And now I´ll have a cup  
of tea, and one of those nice cucumber sandwiches you promised me.  
JOHN. Certainly, Uncle August. [Goes over to tea-table.]  
SIR MANGER. Won´t you come and sit here, Gwaine?  
GWAINE. Thanks, father, I´m quite comfortable where I am.  
JOHN. [Picking up empty plate in horror.] Good Galaxy! Davidson! Why are there  
no cucumber sandwiches? I ordered them specially.  
DAVIDSON. There were no cucumbers in the market this morning, sir. I went down  
twice.  
JOHN. No cucumbers!  
DAVIDSON. No, sir. Not even for ready money.  
JOHN. That will do, Davidson, thank you.  
DAVIDSON. Thanks you, sir.[Goes out.]  
JOHN. I am greatly distressed, Uncle August, about there being no cucumbers, not  
even for ready money.  
SIR MANGER. It really makes no matter, John. I had some crumpets at Lady  
Hallett, who seems to me to be living entirely for pleasure now. [JOHN crosses and  
hands tea.] Thank you. I have a treat for you tonight, John.  
JOHN. I am afraid Uncle August, I shall have to give up the pleasure of dining with  
you tonight after all.  
SIR MANGER. [Frowning.] I hope not, John. It would put my table completely out.  
JOHN. It is a great bore, and, I need hardly say, a terrible disappointment to me,  
but the fact is I have just had a telegram to say that my poor friend the Doctor is  
very ill again. [Exchanges glances with JACK.] They seem to think I should be with  
him.  
SIR MANGER. It is very strange. This Doctor seems to suffer from curiously bad  
health, though he is a doctor himself.  
JOHN. Yes; the poor Doctor is a dreadful invalid.  
SIR MANGER. Well, I must say, John, that I think it is high time that the Doctor  
makes up his mind whether he is going to live or to die. This shilly-shallying  
with the question is absurd. I should be much obliged of you would ask the  
Doctor, from me, to be kind enough not to have a relapse on Saturday, for I rely on  
you to arrange my music for me.  
JOHN. I´ll speak to the Doctor, Uncle August, if he is still conscious, and I think I  
can promise you he´ll be all right by Saturday. Of course the music is a great  
difficulty. You see, if one plays good music, people don´t listen, and if one plays  
bad music people don´t talk. But I´ll run over the programme I´ve drawn out, if  
you will kindly come into the next room for a moment.  
SIR MANGER. Thank you, John. It is very thoughtful of you. [Rising and following  
JOHN.] I´m sure the programme will be delightful, after a few expurgations.  
Gwaine, you will accompany me.  
GWAINE. Certainly, father.  
[SIR MANGER and JOHN go into the music-room, GWAINE remains behind.]  
JACK. Charming day it has been, Mister Fairjones.  
GWAINE. Pray don´t talk to me about the weather, Mr. Worthness. Whenever people  
talk to me about the weather, I always feel quite certain that they mean something  
else. And that makes me so nervous.  
JACK. I do mean something else.  
GWAINE. I thought so. In fact, I am never wrong. [Smirks.]  
JACK. And I would like to be allowed to take advantage of Sir Manger´s temporary  
absence…  
GWAINE. I would certainly advise you to do so. My father has a way of coming back  
suddenly into a room that I have often had to speak to him about.  
JACK [Nervously.] Mister Fairjones, ever since I met you I have admired you more  
than any boy… I have ever met since… I met you.  
GWAINE. Yes, I am quite aware of the fact. [Blushes.] And I often wish that in  
public, at any rate, you had been more demonstrative. For me you have always  
had an irresistible fascination. Even before I met you I was far from indifferent to  
you. [JACK looks at him in amazement.] We live, as I hope you know Mr.  
Worthness, in an age of ideals. The fact is constantly mentioned in the more  
expensive monthly magazines, and has reached the provincial pulpits I am told:  
and my ideal has always been to marry someone of the name of Ernest. There is  
something in that name that inspires absolute confidence. The moment John first  
mentioned to me that he had a friend called Ernest, I knew I was destined to love  
you.  
JACK. You really love me, Gwaine?  
GWAINE. Passionately!  
JACK. Darling! You don´t know how happy you´ve made me.  
GWAINE. My own Ernest!  
JACK. But you don´t mean to say that you couldn´t love me if my name wasn´t Ernest?  
GWAINE. But your name is Ernest.  
JACK. Yes, I know it is. But supposing it was something else? Do you mean to say  
you couldn´t love me then?  
GWAINE. Ah! That is clearly a metaphysical speculation, and like most  
metaphysical speculations has very little reference at all to the actual facts of real  
life, as we know them.  
JACK. Personally, darling, to speak quite candidly, I don´t much care about the  
name of Ernest … I don´t think the name suits me at all.  
GWAINE. It suits you perfectly. It is a divine name. It has a music of its own. It  
produces vibrations.  
JACK. Well, really, Gwaine, I must say that I think there are lots of other much  
nicer names. I think Jack, for instance, a charming name.  
GWAINE. Jack? … No, there is very little music in the name Jack, if any at all,  
indeed. It does not thrill. It produces absolutely no vibrations. … The only really  
safe name is Ernest.  
JACK. Gwaine, I must get christened at once – I mean we must get married at  
once. There is no time to be lost.  
GWAINE. Married, Mr. Worthness?  
JACK. [Astounded.] Well … surely. You know that I love you, and you led me to  
believe, Mr. Fairjones, that you were absolutely indifferent to me.  
GWAINE. I adore you. But you haven´t proposed to me yet. Nothing has been said  
at all about marriage. The subject has not even been touched on. [Touches JACK´s  
knee.]  
JACK. Well… may I propose to you now?  
GWAINE. I think it would be an admirable opportunity. And to spare you any  
possible disappointment, Mr. Worthness, I think it only fair to tell you quite  
frankly beforehand that I am fully determined to accept you.  
JACK. [Blushes.] GWAINE!  
GWAINE. Yes, Mr. Worthness, what have you got to say to me?  
JACK. You know what I have got to say to you.  
GWAINE. Yes, but you don´t say it.  
JACK. Gwaine, will you marry me? [Goes on his knees.]  
GWAINE. Of course I will, darling! [Kisses JACK, passionately.]  
JACK. My own one, I have never loved anyone in the world but you.  
GWAINE. What wonderful blue eyes you have, Ernest! They are quite, quite blue. I  
hope you will always look at me just like that, especially when there are other  
people present.  
[Enter SIR MANGER.]  
SIR MANGER. Mr. Worthness! Rise, sir, from this semi-recumbent posture. It is  
most indecorous.  
GWAINE. Father! [JACK tries to rise; GWAINE restrains him.] I must beg you to  
retire. This is no place for you. Besides, Mr. Worthness has not quite finished yet.  
SIR MANGER. Finished what, may I ask?  
GWAINE. I am engaged to Mr. Worthness, father. [They rise together.]  
SIR MANGER. Pardon me, you are not engaged to anyone. When you do become  
engaged to someone, I, or your mother, should her health permit her, will inform  
you of the fact. An engagement should come from a young man like you to a young  
girl as a surprise. And not from an older lover to a young boy. We are now in the  
20th century Wales and not anywhere in Greece there is no Zeus and Ganymede or  
Epicure. And you are not a philosopher or his Erastus, Mr. Worthness, who can marry his apprentice, his ermines! … And now I have a few questions to put to you, Mr. Worthness. While I am making these inquiries, you, Gwaine, will wait for me below in the carriage.  
GWAINE. [Reproachfully.] Father!  
SIR MANGER. In the carriage, Gwaine! [GWAINE goes to the door. He and JACK  
look at each other with sorrow. SIR MANGER turns round.] Gwaine, the carriage!  
GWAINE. Yes, father. [Goes out, looking back at JACK.]  
SIR MANGER. [Sitting down.] You can take a seat, Mr. Worthness. [Looks in his pocket for note-book and pencil.]  
JACK. Thank, you Sir Manger, I prefer standing.  
SIR MANGER.[Pencil and note-book in hand.] I bet you do. I feel bound to tell you that you are not down on my list of eligible young "women". However, I am quite ready to enter your name should your answers be what a really affectionate father requires. Do you drink?  
JACK. Well, yes, I must admit, I drink sometimes.  
SIR MANGER. I am glad to hear it. A man should always have an occupation of  
some kind. There are far too many idle men in London as it is. How old are you?  
JACK. Well, how old do I look? [smirks.]  
SIR MANGER. [writes.] In his late thirties. Not a very good age to be married at. I  
have always been of opinion that a man who desires to get married should know  
either everything or nothing. Which do you know?  
JACK. [after some hesitation.] All, but nothing. I have seen things you couldn´t  
think of, Sir Manger.  
SIR MANGER. I don´t want to know about your hanky-pankies! What is your  
occupation?  
JACK. I work for an institute, it´s outside the government, beyond the police…  
Some years ago I worked for an agency, but it´s rather complicatded…  
SIR MANGER. Here in Cardiff? I never heard of it.  
JACK. Yes, but no wonder you never heard of it, if you haven´t had any encounters  
with us.  
SIR MANGER. So what is your income? Must be high since you work for the  
government.  
JACK. I don´t care about money.  
SIR MANGER. Well, unfortunately I do care about money. Do you own any land?  
JACK. Yes, Sir Manger, I own a country house in Brecknockshire with about fifteen  
hundred acres, I believe.  
SIR MANGER. A country house! How many bedrooms? [derogatory.] I guess you  
yourself need three every night. You have a town house, I hope?  
JACK. Well, I own a house near Mermaid Quay, in South Glamorgan.  
SIR MANGER. [Shaking his head.] Near the Docks how unfashionable.  
JACK. I see potential in this area.  
SIR MANGER. If you think so. What are your politics?  
JACK. Well, I am afraid I really have none. I am not into it.  
SIR MANGER. Oh, you can still be influenced. Now to minor matters. Are your  
parents living?  
JACK. I have lost both my parents.  
SIR MANGER. To lose one parent, Mr. Worthness, may be regarded as a  
misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness. Who was your father? He was  
evidently a man of some wealth. Was he born in what the Radical papers call the  
purple of commerce, or did he rise from the ranks of the aristocracy?  
JACK. I am afraid I really don´t know. Anyway the ranks would have been very  
grateful. [smirks, then continues with a sad voice and face] The fact is, Sir Manger,  
I said I had lost my parents. It would be nearer the truth to say that my parents  
seem to have lost me in a war on the peninsula I come from … never mind! So, I  
don´t actually know who I am by birth. I was … well, I was found by… the Doctor.  
SIR MANGER. Found! By John´t invalid friend?  
JACK. The Doctor, who back then was at good health, is a gentleman of a very  
charitable and kindly disposition. He found me, and gave me the name of  
Worthness, because he thought I was something  
valuable and that one day I would be of a great importance.  
SIR MANGER. Where did the charitable gentleman who had thought you were  
valuable find you?  
JACK. [Gravely.] In a Spaceship or you could say some kind of metal Zepplin.  
SIR MANGER. A Spaceship?  
JACK. [very seriously.] Yes, Sir Manger. I was in a Spaceship – an  
invisible Spaceship, made of metal, not very large – I can´t quite  
remember how I got in it. To be precise it wasn´t him who found me, it was a  
woman who brought me to him.  
SIR MANGER. In what locality did this Doctor come across this invisible spaceship.  
JACK. Next to the clock tower at the Houses of Parliament. I rescued the woman  
who travelled with him.  
SIR MANGER. The clock tower at the Houses of Parliament?  
JACK. Yes. Just next to Big Ben.  
SIR MANGER. This big bell is immaterial. Mr. Worthness, I confess I feel somewhat  
bewildered by what you have just told me. To talk about spaceships, which are  
invisible, near the clock tower, whether it was next to Big Ben, seems to display a  
serious illness in one´s mind that reminds one of the worst excesses of the French  
Revolution. And I presume you know what that unfortunate fact led to? As for the  
things you just told me which obviously indicate an ill mind lead me to call a  
doctor to bring you somewhere save! Also it is utterly obvious that you can´t marry  
Gwaine because you are both of the male sex and this is not how marriage,  
especially in our society, works!  
JACK. May I ask you then what you would advise me to do? I need hardly say I  
would do anything in the universe to get married to Gwaine.  
SIR MANGER. I would strongly advise you, Mr. Worthness, to try to change your  
sex, and to produce at any rate one parent, of either sex, before the season is quite  
over.  
JACK. Well, I don´t see how I could possibly manage to do that. I can produce the  
spaceship at any moment. It is in a barn near my country house. Would this be of  
any help, Sir Manger?  
SIR MANGER. Me, sir! What has it to do with me? You can hardly imagine that I  
would dream of allowing my only soon – a boy brought up with the utmost care –  
to marry into a "spaceship", and form an alliance with a person of the same sex?  
Good morning, Mr. Worthness!  
[SIR MANGER sweeps out in majestic indignation.]  
JACK. Good morning! [JOHN from the other room strikes up the Wedding March.  
JACK looks perfectly furious, and goes to the door.] For goodness sake don´t play  
that ghastly tune, John! How idiotic you are!  
[The music stops and JOHN enters cheerily.]  
JOHN. Didn´t it go off all right, old boy? You don´t mean to say Gwaine refused  
you?  
JACK. Oh, Gwaine is as right as a trivet. But as queer as a clockwork orange. As  
far as he is concerned, we are engaged. His father is perfectly unbearable. Never  
met such a Gorgon … I don´t really know what a Gorgon is like, but I am quite  
sure that Sir Manger is one. In any case, he is a monster, without being a myth,  
which is rather unfair … I beg your pardon, John, I suppose I shouldn´t talk about  
your own uncle in that way before you.  
JOHN. My dear boy, I love hearing my relations abused. It is the only thing that  
makes me put up with them at all. Relations are simply a tedious pack of people,  
who haven´t got the remotest knowledge of how to live, nor the smallest instinct  
about when to die.  
JACK. Oh, that is nonsense!  
JOHN. It isn´t!  
JACK. Well, I won´t argue about the matter. You always want to argue about  
things.  
JOHN. That is exactly what things were originally made for.  
JACK. Upon my word, if I thought that, I´d shoot myself … [A pause. JACK looking  
furious, then indifferent.] You don´t think there is any chance of Gwaine becoming  
like his father in about a hundred and fifty years, do you, John?  
JOHN. All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does.  
That´s his.  
JACK. Is that clever?  
JOHN. It is perfectly phrased! And quite as true as any observation in civilised life  
should be.  
JACK. I am sick to death of cleverness… Well, if I was able to die. Everybody is  
clever nowadays. You can´t go anywhere without meeting clever people. The thing  
has become an absolute public nuisance. I wish to goodness we had a few fools  
left.  
JOHN. We have.  
JACK. I should extremely like to meet them. What do they talk about?  
JOHN. The fools? Oh! About the clever people, of course.  
JACK. What fools!  
JOHN. By the way, did you tell Gwaine the truth about your case of identity, I  
mean your being Ernest in town, and Jack in the country?  
JACK. [in very patronising manner.] My dear fellow, the truth isn´t quite the sort of  
thing one tells to a nice, sweet, refined boy. What extraordinary ideas you have  
about the way to behave to a boy!  
JOHN. The only way to behave to a boy is to make love to him if he is pretty, and to  
someone else if he is plain.  
JACK. Oh, that is nonsense, that´s utterly unromantic.  
JOHN. What about your brother? What about the profligate, Ernest?  
JACK. Oh, before the end of the week I shall have got rid of him. I´ll say he died in  
Paris of apoplexy. Lots of people die of apoplexy, quite suddenly, don´t they?  
JOHN. Yes, but it´s hereditary, my dear fellow. It´s a sort of thing that runs in  
families. You have much better say a severe chill.  
JACK. You are sure a severe chill isn´t hereditary, or anything of that kind?  
JOHN. Of course it isn´t!  
JACK. Very well, then. My poor brother Ernest is carried off suddenly in Paris, by a  
severe chill. That gets rid of him.  
JOHN. But I thought you said that … Miss Cooper was a little too much interested  
in your poor brother Ernest? Won´t she feel his loss a good deal?  
JACK. Oh, that is alright. Cecily is not a silly, romantic girl, I am glad to say. She has got a capital appetite, goes long walks, and pays no attention at all to her lessons.  
JOHN. [smirks.] I would rather like to see Cecily.  
JACK. I will take good care you never do. She is excessively pretty, and she is only  
just eighteen.  
JOHN. Have you told Gwaine yet that you have an excessively pretty ward who is  
only just eighteen?  
JACK. Oh! One doesn´t blurt these things out to people. Cecily and Gwaine are  
perfectly certain to be extremely great friends, and nothing more. I´ll bet you  
anything that half an hour after they have met, they will be calling each other  
brother and sister.  
JOHN. If you think so. But it would be a good chance to make Gwaine your son in  
law, I know some men who did that, so you could have him around you quite  
often…  
JACK. [with a bitter expression.] No, Cecily couldn´t bear that.  
JOHN. Now, my dear boy, if we want to get a good table at Suzie´s , we really must  
go and dress. [looks at JACK and smirks.] Do you know it´s nearly seven?  
JACK. [Irritably.] Oh! it always is nearly seven.  
JOHN. Well, I am hungry.  
JACK. I never knew when you weren´t….  
JOHN. What shall we do after dinner? Go to a theatre?  
JACK. Oh, no! I loathe listening.  
JOHN. Well, let us go to the club and meet some boys?  
JACK. Oh, no! I hate talking.  
JOHN. Well, what shall we do then? [lifts eyebrow.]  
JACK. Nothing! [smirks.]  
JOHN. It is awfully hard work doing nothing. [smirks.] However, we spent five years  
in a time loop, do you remember? [fonds JACK´s cheek.]  
[Enter DAVIDSON.]  
DAVIDSON. Mister Fairjones.  
[Enter GWAINE. DAVIDSON goes out.]  
JOHN. Gwaine, upon my word!  
GWAINE. John, kindly turn your back. I have something very particular to say to  
Mr. Worthness.  
JOHN. Really, Gwaine, I don´t think I can allow this at all.  
GWAINE. John, you always adopt a strictly immoral attitude towards life. [JOHN  
retires to the fireplace. GWAINE kisses JACK passionately.]  
JACK. My own darling!  
GWAINE. Ernest, we may never be married. From the expression on father´s face I  
fear we never shall. But although he may prevent us from becoming husband and  
husband, and I may marry someone else, and marry often, nothing that he can  
possibly do can alter my eternal devotion to you.  
JACK. Dear Gwaine!  
GWAINE. The story of your romantic origin, as related to me by father, with  
unpleasing comments, has naturally stirred the deeper fibres of my nature. Your  
name has an irresistible fascination. Your town address in South Glamorgan, I  
have. What is your address in the country?  
JACK. Jackson Leaves, Powys, Brecknockshire.  
[JOHN, who has been carefully listening, smiles to himself, and writes the address on his shirt-cuff. Then picks up the Railway Guide.]  
GWAINE. There is a good postal service, I suppose? It may be necessary to do  
something desperate. That, of course, will require serious consideration. I will  
communicate with you daily.  
JACK. My own one!  
GWAINE. How long do you remain in town?  
JACK. Till Monday.  
GWAINE. Good! John, you may turn round now.  
JOHN. Thanks, I´ve turned round already.  
GWAINE. You may also ring the bell.  
JACK. You will let me bring you to your carriage, my own darling?  
GWAINE. Certainly.  
JACK [to DAVIDSON, who now enters.] I will bring Mister Fairjones out.  
DAVIDSON. Yes, sir. [JACK and GWAINE go off.]  
[DAVIDSON presents several letters on a salver to JOHN. It is to be surmised that they are bills, as JOHN, after looking at the envelops, tears them up.]  
JOHN. A glass of sherry, Davidson.  
DAVIDSON. Yes, sir.  
JOHN. Tomorrow, Davidson, I am going Doctoring.  
DAVIDSON. Yes, sir.  
JOHN. I shall probably not be back till Monday. You can put up my dress clothes,  
my smoking jacket, and all the Doctor suits…  
DAVIDSON. Yes, sir. [Handing sherry.]  
JOHN. I hope tomorrow will be a fine day, Davidson.  
DAVIDSON. It never is, sir.  
JOHN. Davidson, you´re a perfect pessimist, but also a perfect boy. [slaps his  
bottom]  
DAVIDSON. I do my best to give satisfaction, sir.  
[Enter JACK, DAVIDSON goes off.]  
JACK. There´s a sensible, intellectual boy! The only boy I ever card for in my life.  
[JOHN is laughing immoderately.] What on earth are you so amused at?  
JOHN. Oh, I´m a little anxious about the poor Doctor, that is all.  
JACK. If you don´t take care, your friend the Doctor will get you into a serious  
scrape someday.  
JOHN. I love scrapes. They are the only things that are never serious.  
JACK. Oh, that´s nonsense, John. You never talk anything but nonsense.  
JOHN. Nobody ever does.  
[JACK looks indignantly at him, and leaves the room, JOHN drinks sherry, reads his shirt-cuff and smiles.]


End file.
